Colonel Gaddafi’s Hat. Alex Crawford

      Dedication

      To Rick, Nat, Frankie, Maddy and Flo, without whom I can do nothing

      Contents

       Cover

      Title Page

      Dedication

      Prologue

      Chapter One: Libya Bound

      Chapter Two: Dawn Attack

      Chapter Three: Under Siege

      Chapter Four: Escape From Zawiya

      Chapter Five: ‘Why Do I Keep Crying?’

      Chapter Six: Return to Libya

      Chapter Seven: Battle for Misrata

      Chapter Eight: Citizen Army

      Chapter Nine: Zawiya Hits Back

      Chapter Ten: Riding the Rebel Convoy

      Chapter Eleven: Green Square

      Chapter Twelve: The Only Working Hospital in Tripoli

      Chapter Thirteen: Inside Gaddafi’s Lair

      Chapter Fourteen: Running on Empty

      Chapter Fifteen: Revenge

      Chapter Sixteen: Farewell to ‘New’ Libya

      Acknowledgements

      Picture Section

      About the Author

      Credits

      Copyright

      About the Publisher

      PROLOGUE

      Saturday, 5 March 2011

      I look over at Martin and catch his eye and I know instantly he is thinking the same as me. We’re going to die.

      We actually can’t get out of this. The tanks are outside. Right outside where we are sitting. Gaddafi’s soldiers seem to be all around us. This is it. I had often wondered how I would go, what the end would be like. I hoped it would be after my four children had had their own children. But no. We are actually going to die alongside strangers in this mosque in Zawiya, a long, long way from home.

      Martin’s face is shiny with sweat. His big eyes seem even bigger than normal. He’s looking at me from across this small room. We stare at each other without saying anything for several seconds. I can see my own fear reflected in his face. He looks terrified. I think I must look the same. I know I feel it.

      Oh God. I don’t want to die. My youngest child is only 8. Nat is my oldest and he hasn’t even finished school yet. I haven’t said goodbye to any of them. I haven’t seen them grow up. I haven’t seen how they’ll do at school, who they’ll marry, what jobs they will choose, where they will live. I glance over to Tim. He has his head in his hands, looking at the floor. He has three sons. He’s thinking all these things too. Christ, this is bad.

      Quick, awful, selfish thoughts hurtle through my mind. Will it be quick? Will it hurt? But these are quickly replaced by regrets. Regrets at all the love I am about to say farewell to. All the children’s hugs I will miss out on. All the things I won’t be able to do now. All the places I won’t be able to see. All the adventures I planned with my family but never did. Oh God.

      And then there’s all those special occasions I’ve missed because of reporting far, far away – birthdays, school plays, anniversaries, friends’ dinner parties, holidays cut short. How will my children cope? How will Richard, my husband, cope? Will my friends miss me?

      Then I stop myself. Shit, I think, if we’re going to die I’m bloody well going to let everyone know what happened to us, what’s happening to these people around us. My phone still has a signal. Unbelievable. I ring the office in London and ask to be put on air.

      Chapter One

      LIBYA BOUND

      Tuesday, 1 March

      Four days earlier, I’m in bed in my home in Dubai, where I have been posted for Sky News as a Special Correspondent and where my family and I now live. A buzz sounds on my phone and wakes me. It’s late and I’m disturbed but that’s all. I had been hoping for this message, and when the text comes I feel a rush of adrenalin.

      ‘Can you go to Libya? John.’

      John Ryley, the head of Sky News, never wastes words (or letters for that matter). But this is all I want to hear from him anyway. Great. We are off. Martin Smith, who is my cameraman, and I have already been on a whirlwind of Arab Spring stories, our feet barely touching the ground as we rush from one revolution to another – Tunisia, Egypt, Bahrain, and Egypt again. Now it’s Libya. And Libya could be the hardest, most brutal regime to be taken on so far. Colonel Gaddafi has been in power for forty-two years. He and his sons run the country like a personal fiefdom and he shows no sign of giving up despite the huge protest demonstrations calling for him to end his rule. Libya is also important to the rest of the world for another, particularly significant, reason. It is one of the world’s top ten energy-producing countries – accounting for nearly 2 per cent of total oil production. The unrest has led to a sharp increase in global oil prices. It is a hugely exciting time to be a journalist, exhilarating to be at the centre of these huge events with big implications for the world. We all want to be there.

      Recently, Martin and I haven’t even had time to unpack before we’re off again – to another country where the regime would rather shoot or arrest us than let us report or film what’s going on.

      This time, though, it’s different. We are going in legitimately. The Libyan government is issuing visas and ‘invitations’ so journalists can travel to the country and ‘see the truth for themselves’. But it is already becoming clear that the regime intends to manipulate the journalists as much as possible. They want to get their message out. And that message is that Colonel Muammar Gaddafi is still popular, still powerful and still very much in control. But, before tackling the Libyan regime, I have to manage my own domestic revolt.

      Telling my four children I am off again and going away from them is definitely the very worst part of my job. My youngest child, Flo, who is 8, is looking up at me and her brown eyes are filling with tears. ‘But for how long, Mum? How long are you going away for? Will you be back in time for my parent–teacher conference?’ I say the same thing every time. ‘I’ll try, baby. I’ll try really hard. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ She’s clinging to me, sobbing into my stomach. I am feeling rotten. ‘Please don’t go, Mum. Pleeeease? Why can’t you be like other mums? If you love me, you wouldn’t go. Will you be back by next week? Will you? Will you?’ I hate having to disappoint them but I know in my mind the revolution probably isn’t going to be all over by next Thursday. That’s not a revolution timetable. But I just can’t find the courage to break her heart by telling her this harsh truth. I hope I’m braver in Libya.

      Florence is not yet in double figures but is more than adept at pulling the heartstrings and deploying a fearsome array of emotional blackmail tactics. ‘You know what would really help when you go away? (pause for effect) … A puppy.’

      ‘Hmmm, let me think about it,’ I say, playing for time.

      Sometimes I don’t even have the chance to say goodbye. They might be at school, on a play-date, or it could be I leave in the middle of the night to catch a flight or make a connection. If I can, I try to leave little notes hidden around their rooms. They don’t say much. Maybe ‘I love you’ or ‘Remember